Thanatophobia: Journal Entry 1

May 12-13 2025

I often wonder what other people’s lives are like. Do they struggle with the same things as me? Do they also feel like the world is on their shoulders? Do they know that even though I have never met them, complete strangers I can only imagine from a plant at an office widow, or a Shiba Inu relaxing on a high rise balcony, that they impact me?

I’m ridding in the passenger seat of my forced purchase (a Nissan Rogue that I love but had to spend money on after having to sell my beloved Moses, a red Corolla I had modified and customized, even though I had finished paying it off. I had to sell it because my dad was my cosigner and hates the IRS. It’s not fun having to receive a phone call that your car will get repossessed even though you always pay it early - just another way in which he has just clearly been there for me), as we’re driving north on the I4, playing R&B on the radio. I see the buildings go by like props on a sound stage, a rather elaborate set. They pass so quickly that all I can do is see frames, stills of time of people’s lives. Until only recently did this city start to feel so big to me. I used to feel like I knew this place, every building in the skyline, the main roads, the corner stores. Even in my neighbourhood, I’ve lost count of how many homes have been torn down. I’ve lost count at how many families that were there are no longer there, like a memory that wasn’t mine, or a hair on my favourite sweater that gets plucked away never to be seen again. What ever happened to the family across the street? She must feel so done, so abandoned and helpless after losing not one, but two sons. 

At that point, are they still a family? I’ve lost people, but never someone like a parent or a sibling, or a significant other. I think that might hurt more. My husband and his parents have. I only know his brother from anecdotes and things of his around the house. He seemed to also have issues, he seemed to also hurt. Hurt people hurt people, something my husband likes to say. I think he can’t help but to love his brother even though it seems like Brendan didn’t love him. I’m sure he did, he just didn’t love himself and assuredly took it out on him. There is a lot of tension in that house, between all of them. It’s a shrine to trauma and death when his parents are around. I know they mean well, I know they’re trying. They also happen to be middle class and white. I’m adamant about expressing this, will my feelings on this topic upset him? Will they hurt him? I’m not sure if it’s my place to have an opinion, or a perspective, I met him after the fact. But my job is to protect him, so he might not be too mad about it. Maybe he will immediately understand. How do people just function never asking so many questions? Why do I ask so many questions? Can I stop asking so many questions? I would imagine it so that if I stop, he can also be as inquisitive, and detail oriented, and as willing to protect both of us. I trust him, more than I have ever trusted anyone. He’s been through so much, I will be the one that takes the hits. Maybe I’m sheltering him. 

I see an open window, as a man stands near it smoking a cigarette. A woman is reading on her balcony with her legs resting on the railing as she sits in one of those comfy padded rattan chairs that every city person seems to have. Every morning I see a man on an exercise bike at the window of his twelfth floor office, his shades pulled back. Every morning I know I’m on time if I see him, late if I don’t. That day will be a bad day. Sometimes I don’t go to work, but it would not make a difference to him, he has never seen me drive by and look up at him. He doesn’t know the color of my car, or the speed at which I usually pass him. 

It’s not his fault, but seeing him is meaningful to me. Sometimes I am on schedule, I wake up early, get my things ready, and am on the second lane in from the wall of the I4, going South on the highway. At that time I usually am driving South on the highway. Sometimes I am on time but he isn’t there. I wonder if he’s okay, or if he called in that day. If it’s a Monday and he isn’t exercising at his window at a rather brave time to be completing a cardiovascular crime as is a biking workout at 6:24 AM, I worry something might have happened to him. I feel compelled to find out about him, to help him. I know I’m objectively helpless in that regard, I don’t even know his name, nor what he looks like, other than I can somewhat tell he’s about 5’9”, 168 lbs, and around the age of 45 from the angle at which I always catch a glimpse of him. I will never know him. 

I see cars drive past me drastically above the speed limit, a woman texting. Does she know that she’s made me feel as if I might not make it home? Scenario after scenario playing out in my head (her clipping the front of my car and me rolling over, me avoiding her dangerous merge but hitting the outside wall of the highway as we go over a bridge - of which many seem to be next to lakes or retention ponds for some reason). Will I fall in the water? I have to avoid her at all costs to remain safe and make it home today. 

A man eating fries listening to music, he’s not texting, but he did not use his turn signal, his left hand was holding his food. I did not realise he needed to occupy my space, not just space in my lane, but my space. I wonder why he would ever do that, not pay attention, if he cares about other people, if he has insurance, if the impact will be light enough to where I will be okay. I wonder if he will even notice that I was ever there. Will anyone ever notice that I was ever there? I see the dents on his car and his back bumper hanging on like a crusted scab. It tells me everything I need to know about him, about his relationships, about who he is as a person and how he will react if I engage him. I move on, except I don’t move on because I am currently writing about him. 

I see a car broken down on the side of the road, a pickup truck, with equipment. Three men sitting on the edge of the flatbed, their feet hanging over, dangling at the ledge. No sane person sits on a flatbed on the side of the highway with their body on the inside edge, the one closest to cars that drive like they are always late (hungry for time, a sustenance I think I have met, I’m not hungry for more time, at least that’s what  I tell myself, even though I always feel tired or rushed. But that might also be because I pay attention to every detail, constantly, layering of a thread line, rolled seams, panels on the back of a jacket where the closure is exactly 12” on both sides, no spare millimetres). I see what they look like, those men on the side of the road, all latino, Native South Americans, like me, except not like me. I feel I can pass a little more than they can. I feel I can hide a little more than they can. Are they worried about who might be driving by? I am, I’ve been followed by cops that aren’t cops a few times since January 20th. Are they afraid? Are they aware? 

I have a flight coming up, two to be exact, to Mexico. Flights seem to only be dangerous if coming into the United States, not leaving it. I think I have a new fear of drowning. Not just drowning, I can swim rather well, drowning while in a metal cage. My car going over a railing and into a lake, the plane wanting to swim in the Gulf of America. And just like that I have somewhat traumatised myself. I think I’ll cry that day, and I’ll cry even more on the way back. My mother flew Aeromexico recently, she’s having fun in Puebla with a friend whom she says is a friend, but is taking time off to meet us when we’re there next week. I think he’s more than a friend. Maybe they will want to be together long-term. Maybe she will want to move to Mexico and not be faced with imminent danger here in the States, one less person to worry about. 

I’m sure I will be fine, I will it so, although I will never actually know until I know. Nonetheless, I’m trying to be nice to Michael, to love him more than I usually do, to want him more than I usually do, I think this comforts me, maybe if we were in fact in danger, that kind of danger, he won’t worry (I will take it on for both of us). Maybe I’ll be okay. Does he know that I am trying extra hard? Can he see it? Am I doing a good job at it? Am I also being too hard on him? Does he actually feel like I care about him or love him?

A woman posts a video about a man that is a U.S. citizen but got detained coming back into the States, his phone confiscated. Returned later, but he’s emotionally obliterated. Reminds me of when in London Heathrow airport, after a hard day, I was randomly selected to see if I had a bomb shoved up my ass. Randomly selected. My husband is white, so were about 12 other people near me as we walked through hallways, and roped line to roped line. I was the only brown one. Maybe I won’t be the only brown one coming back, maybe I will not the brown one that peaks anyone’s interest. I think I should take a burner, definitely won’t be taking my laptop.

I have tattoos, thirteen to be exact, maybe fourteen on the way back, Mexico is a great place to get tattoos. Should I wear a long sleeve and sweatpants on the way in? Will wearing a long sleeve and sweatpants make me stand out? What is he carrying under that oversized sweater? Is he whom he says he is? Maybe I can have his privilege by proxy. Maybe his whiteness will hide my brownness. Maybe it will emphasize it even more. Thankfully I have copies of every legal document contesting my identity. I have them printed out, I have copies on multiple computers, including his. Maybe they’ll take them and pretend I never had them to begin with. I hope I’ve done enough to keep them from erasing me. I keep forgetting to update my dependants on my life insurance policy, and give him the login to all of my accounts. I keep forgetting to remind him to do the same. I will do that right away. Can he cash out my policy if I get deported but never heard from again? Maybe I will speak with a Southern accent, maybe British (I definitely nail the Chav-ccent). Do other people also prepare this much? Are they as worried?

I hope I did this right, or that I didn’t say too much. Maybe one journal entry is better than none.